


Twist and Shout - How It Could Have Ended

by MKittyUltra, PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Fix-It, Inspired by Twist and Shout - gabriel & standbyme, M/M, Twist & Shout, twist and shout fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKittyUltra/pseuds/MKittyUltra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble/pseuds/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to the notorious 'Twist & Shout'.</p><p>Or - Twist and Shout / Chapter 9 / Late February, 1981- ehem, I don’t think so bitch it’s July 1972 or so help me Dean Winchester I’ll tear out your eyes and feed them to a goat and that’s definitely not funnier in enochian, you big dumb jerk. Right, are you listening? THIS IS HOW IT’S GOING DOWN, NOW, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE THE ‘RIGHTEOUS MAN’, OKAY? NOT GREAT BIG BAG OF DICKS, THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE LUCIFER, YOU HEAR ME, THE ACTUAL DEVIL? OKAY? OKAY. NOW SIT DOWN AND PAY ATTENTION, DEAN, THIS IS HOW WE'RE GOING TO FIX THIS MESS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist and Shout - How It Could Have Ended

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twist and Shout](https://archiveofourown.org/works/537876) by [gabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriel/pseuds/gabriel), [standbyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbyme/pseuds/standbyme). 



Dean jolted awake as the bus ran through a pot hole. It was hot, the trembling spit of the broken air condition failing miserably to cool the interior of the bus even slightly. He stretched, for a moment dislocated in time, confused to find an uncomfortable chair beneath him rather than the jungle floor. His head ached from crying and the contents of his now-empty hip-flask. 

Outside the window, nothing passed but fields filled with swaying golden corn, and for some reason looking at it made Dean feel even more uncomfortable. He looked down at the duffel bag wedged between his knees, containing everything he owned but not the one thing he needed. He pressed his eyes shut again and leaned his head against the hot glass, willing sleep to overcome him again, but it wouldn’t. Still, he wouldn’t dare to open them again. He was too afraid he’d see something that would make him turn back, and that was something he’d decided he couldn’t do. ~~  
~~

Finally, after a few more long, uncomfortable hours packed into the rickety bus, it pulled to a stop by a familiar rusted sign. It was nightfall, the sky shades of pink and purple. Bobby’s house, way out in the fields, was silhouetted against it. He’d forgotten how gorgeous it was out here. The night air was clear but stagnant. He could see all the way to the town a mile further down the road, and the ground was still holding onto the heat of the day. It bled up through the soles of Dean’s boots and into his legs.

He trudged up the long driveway, ignoring the hue of the last shades of blue in the sky, pretending they did not remind him of Castiel’s eyes, wide and eager as he looked across from the table at him. He’d left because of those eyes, because they were always so damned filled up with hope and longing and love that Dean did not deserve. Dean would ruin Castiel, like he’d ruined everything else. He couldn’t bear to sit around and wait until the lights in his eyes went out, the way they would eventually, when Dean’s poison finally ate it’s way to his heart. 

Bobby was skeptical but understanding, as he always was. He made it clear in his way that he thought Dean was making the wrong decision, but that he respected his rights to make it, and for that Dean was grateful. Bobby didn’t understand - he still saw Dean as he’d been before, the way Castiel saw him too. For some reason nobody else saw the bad in him now. He was rotten, decrepit. He should isolate himself or he’d kill everything else he touched. 

He started work at Bobby’s garage the next Monday, relishing the opportunity to do something with his hands. It had been long enough since he’d worked on cars that it was intellectually demanding enough for it to take his mind off Castiel. By the following Monday it was beginning to get easier for him to work, and by the Monday after that Dean realised it wouldn’t keep his mind occupied for long at all, even if it kept his hands so. That was a bad night, for him. He didn’t see the next day, or the day after. The next Monday was just as bad. On the Friday afternoon he emerged, bleary eyed, and stumbled into Bobby’s kitchen to find Sam sitting at the table.

Sam looked tired, his hair unkempt and a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw. He didn’t offer Dean any greetings, and Dean wasn’t in the habit of speaking much anymore. There was a mug of coffee in his brother’s hands and another in front of the empty second chair at the table, which he presumed was supposed to indicate to him that he should sit down. In stead, he picked up the coffee and went to lean against the kitchen counter out of Sam’s eye line. Sam sighed, his eyes closing for a moment like he was gathering his patience. 

"Dean, what the fuck is going on?" Sam asked him. Dean sipped his coffee and didn’t reply. "What are you doing here?" Sam demanded. Dean shook his head. "Stop that, right now," he growled. Dean glared at him. 

"I couldn’t stay there any longer," Dean hissed, his voice low and dangerous. Sam got to his feet abruptly, the chair’s legs scraping loudly and angrily over the lino as he shoved it back from the table. He slammed his mug onto the counter beside Dean. 

"And what do you mean by that?" Sam snapped. 

"I’m no good for him anymore! Look at me, Sam; I’m a mess. I’m… I’m poison," Dean spat, slamming down his own mug too. Sam groaned. 

"You don’t think he should have a say in what’s good for him?" Sam spat. "Do you have any idea,  _any idea_ , what you leaving has done to him?” 

"It would have been worse if I’d stayed," Dean mumbled. Sam was silent for a few moments. 

"Do you miss him?" he asked quietly. 

"Of course I fucking miss him, Sam," Dean growled angrily. "With every inch of what’s left, I miss him. But I can’t go back."

"And why the hell not?" Sam snapped. "Because you think you’re poison? You don’t think you’re up to the task? Well, I hate to break this to you Dean, but the world doesn’t revolve around you, and this decision is  _not just about you!”_

"I was ruining his life!" Dean yelled back at him.

"Bullshit, Dean! You’re ruining it  _now!_ " Sam shouted, exasperated. Dean looked at the ground. 

"I can’t do that to him anymore, I can’t watch him hurting because of me," Dean admitted. 

"So, what? Out of sight, out of mind? You think he’s not hurting because of you right now? Think again Dean," Sam hissed bitterly. "You’re such a jerk, Dean. You’re  _killing him.”_

Dean’s head snapped up. Sam’s eyes were tight, his mouth a thin, hard line. “What do you mean?” Dean grumbled. 

"Did you think that when you walked away without even saying goodbye to him that he’d just, what, pick himself up and be able to carry on without you. He waited so long for you to come back. You don’t understand what it was like for him when you were away, what it was like for him when you never really came back," Sam told him.

"That’s why I had to leave," Dean explained desperately. Sam shook his head. 

"No, you naive, self-agrandoising idiot. It’s why you need to go back," Sam hissed. 

"I’m no good for him," Dean whined. 

"Who gives a fuck if you’re good enough? Point is, he thinks you’re good enough. He waited for you Dean. He’s  _still_  waiting,” Sam said quietly. He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and grimaced. “I can’t make you do anything, Dean, but I’m begging you; come back. Even if it’s just to say goodbye, Dean. Please,” Sam begged, his eyes wide and puppy-like. Dean scoffed and looked away. “For Cas. He deserves you to consider it, at least.”

Dean looked at the ground hard for a long time before he spoke. “I… I’ll think about it,” he muttered. Sam smiled sadly.

"Thank you," he said. Dean didn’t reply, only shrugged off Sam’s hand and sloped back off up the stairs to drain what was left of the optic of Jack under his bed. 

The room was one he’d spent a lot of time in as a kid, though back in those days he’d always shared it with Sam. There were little mementos from their childhood dotted around the place; grooves in the headboard of the empty single bed opposite Dean’s from when Sam was teething and gnawed on the wood like some kind of woodland creature, crayon on the wall paper, and an almost-perfect conch shell Dean had found that day they’d been to the beach together. He lifted it now, and pressed it too his ear. He could hear the sea inside of it, just like he could then,  _crash, crash, crash_  against the shore. He knew now that it was only the sound of his pulse reverberating back at him, but he couldn’t bear to place it back on the window sill. His mind was filled with memories of a different day at the beach, Castiel smiling and laughing, with that brick of a camera he’d insisted on lugging around everywhere, the sam one he’d used to take the picture that had lined his helmet in Vietnam. 

That smile, easy and free. Dean had put it there, hadn’t he? He was bad now, but he’d been good once. Good enough for someone like Cas to smile at him like that, even if he didn’t really deserve it. Dean couldn’t hear the sea anymore, he was clutching himself, his arms wrapped around the absence against his chest that ought to be filled with Castiel. 

He’d left because it was right, hadn’t he? It was stronger of him to leave than it would have been to stay and force Cas to suffer through Dean’s pain along side him. Castiel was a bright light, Dean couldn’t bear to smother it with his sadness. He wanted to go back, of course he did, but he couldn’t do that to Cas. Cas was good, and Dean was broken. Cas deserved so much better.

In the middle of the night he found himself outside the door of the spare room, in which he knew Sam was sleeping. He knocked against the door before slipping inside. The chair infront of the dresser squeaked under Dean’s weight as he sat down on it, and that was what woke Sam up. He sat, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the beside lamp.

"Dean?" he asked, confused. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

"I’ll do it," Dean said simply. Because maybe there was some truth in what Sam had said. Maybe he shouldn’t have bitten Cas’ bullet. Even if Dean’s running away wasn’t cowardice, his not saying goodbye definitely was. If he was going to keep up the pretense that he was doing this for Cas, he needed to at least say goodbye. Sam nodded. 

"Thank you."

"Not for you," he grunted. "For him."

——————————————————————————

A knock on the door jolted Castiel awake. He stirred, his head swimming and throbbing as he pushed himself up off the floor. There was another knock. Cas glanced down at himself; underwear and that one t-shirt of Dean’s that he’d missed, tucked in the bottom of the laundry basket, soft and grey, the same one he’d been wearing since the day he found it two weeks ago. It stank. He stank. He didn’t care. 

He stumbled towards the door, unsure if it was drowsiness that made him so clumsy, or if he was still drunk from the night before. Maybe it was just general disregard for himself and everything around him. 

He yanked the door wide, scowl fixed in place already, and gasped. 

It was Dean; dirty, tired, and in clothes that didn’t seem to belong to him, but it was Dean. 

He slammed the door shut again. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. No. He raked his hands through his hair, his heart thumping so wildly in his chest that it was painful. His hand was shaking as it grasped the door handle again. He pulled the door open slowly, bracing himself, fully expecting there for it to be someone else, or - more likely - nobody at all. It would have been just his imagination. It couldn’t have been Dean. 

But.

But it was. 

"Cas…" Dean sounded hurt, disappointed, but his voice was music to Cas’ ears. Dean’s eyes swept disapprovingly over him, but Cas could have sworn he’d never seen anything more beautiful. His freckles were creased by his grimace, but he had never seen a more perfect map of the stars. 

"Dean?" Cas asked, because he had to be sure. Dean didn’t reply, he just stared at him. Cas stepped back into the flat, so Dean could come in, only he didn’t. He just went on staring, over Castiel’s shoulder now. Probably at the curtains that were still drawn even though it was past midday, at the mess, the broken glass on the floor, the torn up books, the shelf resting against the back of the sofa. "I’ve been waiting," Cas mumbled, as though that would explain something about it. He fidgetted. Dean’s gaze returned to him, finally, scanning up and down his body. Cas trembled under his eyes. 

Dean’s head shook minutely, his chin moving just a little, a tiny disagreement with what he had seen. Cas shuddered as a tear dripped from Dean’s chin onto the carpet. “Come here,” he found it in himself to say. He held out his hand towards Dean, but he only stared at it. “Come here,” he said again, more loudly. Dean took a hesitant step, then his fingers were reaching. They were cold as they touched Cas’ palms, and he smiled in relief. Dean gasped at the contact.

Dean blinked, more tears rolling down his cheeks. The door was slowly swinging closed. Dean’s head was shaking again. “I should have come sooner,” Dean whispered eventually. Cas nodded and Dean whimpered, fresh tears running down the tracks across his cheeks.

"Don’t cry," Cas assured him. "I’m so happy…" he tried to explain, but Dean’s face screwed up, his shoulders hunching around himself. His fingers clutched Cas’ desperately. The touch sent waves of relief and need and uncertainty through Cas. "Don’t cry…" he said again, achieving the opposite. "I don’t want you to cry."

"I’m sorry," Dean sobbed. Cas shook his head. 

"No," Cas insisted.

"Please, Cas," Dean begged, stepping closer. Cas was wide eyed, waiting, but he dared not reach out for him. He held his breath. Dean reached out and touched Cas cheek with shaking fingers. Cas’ heart fluttered, and let his eyes half close in contentment. He smiled. 

"You’re a natural," he sighed. Dean make a small strangled sound, and in an instant, Castiel was against his chest. Dean was everywhere, Cas’ head filled with the smell of him. 

"You didn’t think I would come," Dean said into Cas’ hair.

"I was afraid," Cas confessed into Dean’s chest. Dean clutched him tighter. 

"I almost didn’t," Dean said quietly. The words reverberated through him, under Cas’ ear, over the sound of his heart and the choking sound of his tears. 

"I don’t blame you," Cas whispered. He wasn’t sure if he’d intended for Dean to hear that or not. 

"You should," Dean insisted, his arms going limp. For a second Cas was left leaning on his chest then he stepped back. Everywhere Dean’s touch had been moments before felt like it was burning now. 

"I don’t. I don’t want to be angry any more. I’m tired of being angry," Cas said determinedly, attempting to draw himself up in front of Dean. Dean looked confused at first, then terrified. Cas couldn’t understand why, then it dawned on him that Dean was waiting to be turned away. "I want to be happy," Cas told him firmly. Dean closes his eyes, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Cas closed the space between them in a stride, knotted his fingers through those of both of Dean’s hands. The breath caught in Dean’s throat. Cas leaned towards him, whispered gently into his ear; "let’s be happy."

"What’s there to be happy about?" Dean said despairingly, his hands limp in Cas’.

"I’m happy because you kept your promise," Cas sighed, his forehead dropping to Dean’s shoulder. He was rigid. He tried to pull back but Cas held his hands firmly then slid his grip up to Dean’s wrists, keeping him there. 

"I haven’t kept anything, Cas, I let you go. I let this happen to you – I…” 

“…oh, Dean,” Cas began, “you finally came home to me.”

"What?" Dean gasped, disbelief plain in his voice.

"You’re letting me…" Cas’ words stuck in his throat. He swallowed them and started again. "I’m touching you," Cas breathed. Dean remained rigid for a moment after that, then his fingers gripped Cas’ hips. Cas shuddered as he felt Dean’s lips against his neck, wet with tears. 

They stayed like that for some time, at some point or other their hands releasing to wind up the other’s back, fingers clutching at dirty cotton, clinging on as though for dear life. “I would have died, Dean, if you hadn’t come back, you’d have killed me, it would have killed me,” Cas sobbed. 

"Oh god," Dean groaned, clutching him tighter. "I’m so fucking sorry, I’m such an idiot, Cas, I- I don’t deserve you."

"Shut up," Cas said with a tearful chuckle and Dean’s arms squeezed him tighter. "I… I can’t help falling in love with you, Dean," Cas reminded him. Dean pulled back in the embrace, as far as he could without releasing Cas completely. His face was a mix of too many emotions for Cas to document, but he tried desperately, wanting to file them away forever, terrified that any moment Dean might break away, leave again. He didn’t know what he would do. It would really, actually kill him.

"Castiel Novak," Dean said, his words reverent and spoken on shaking lips. "I love you too," he breathed. 


End file.
